


Trust Me

by soullessbrothers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Breathplay, Choking, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, First Time, M/M, Non-Consensual, Soulless Sam Winchester, Spit As Lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 10:30:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soullessbrothers/pseuds/soullessbrothers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a hunt, a soulless Sam confronts Dean about sharpening his skills. When they fight again, Sam decides that he needs to finally give Dean what he has always wanted, whether Dean actually wants it or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is a completely non-consensual Wincest story and very graphic. Warnings for Sam using twisted logic to justify what he does.

Dean sits on his bed in the motel room and cleans his gun. He keeps his eye on the metal, but he’s watching Sam, not-quite-Sam, too. In front of the smudged mirror, Sam presses fingers against his chest. The cut is superficial. Dean had already told him that, but Sam wanted to check over it himself. Sam, Dean’s Sam, would have nodded and cleaned it before he offered to pick up something to eat. This Sam didn’t. Dean didn’t say he was hungry, but he is. He won’t ask for anything from this Sam.

“You were sloppy tonight.”

“Yeah, says the bleeding guy.”

“As good as I am, I’ve only got two arms, Dean. You’re supposed to watch my back.”

Dean bristles. “Are you kidding me right now?”

“I’m still me, man. You could’ve shouted a warning.”

“Well excuse me, Mr Big Shot, but I was neck deep in cult bitches, too. Sorry I can’t save your ass while I’m fighting my own corner.”

“You would’ve before.”

That stings. “Cut the crap, Sam. I did my best.”

“I keep thinking that I should train you. All that time with Lisa’s made you forget stuff.”

“Screw you.”

“Just stating the facts, Dean. You’re not as sharp as you were. I can help you.”

“Help me what?” Dean snorts. “You wanna turn me into some Campbell butcher?”

“It’s not like that and you know it.”

“Nah, man. I think I’d rather stay Jiminy Cricket.”

Sam sits on the bed opposite Dean. His face softens and so does his tone. For a moment, he could be Sammy.

“C’mon, Dean. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Why, no one else dumb enough to stick with you?”

“Look, I’m trying to be patient.”

“Aww, panties in a twist, huh?”

“I’m doing what’s right.”

“Yeah.” Dean barks a shadowed laugh. “What’s right. After I told you what my Sam’d do.”

“I am your Sam! What the hell do I have to do to prove it to you?”

“You’re not the Sam that counts.”

“So, what, you only cared about a soul? Nothing else?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No. Tell me.”

“Damnit, Sam.”

Sam narrows his eyes. “You’re just jealous, Dean. You’re jealous because you were the big brother, someone I looked up to, and now I’m better.”

“Oh, okay. You got me.”

“Stop it,” he growls. “I’m the one in charge now. You don’t get to tell me what to do. And you know what? Old me would have liked that, too. You’re the one with all the crap, Dean, not me.”

“Right. Because a soul’s all crap, huh?”

“It gets in the way.”

Dean puts his gun to one side and glares. The motel room is so cramped that their knees almost touch. The air is thick between them, another wall. Dean curls his fists. He controls his breathing to stop himself from lashing out. All he wants to do is crack knuckles across Sam’s jaw.

“And that’s how I know you’re not Sam.”

It’s Sam’s turn to laugh. “So you want to get rid of me, the better hunter, for some broken, lonely kid?”

“Sam,” he warns.

“No, really. You know, maybe it’s because before, I didn’t notice, and now you’ll guess I can, and it’s freaking you out.”

“I dunno what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” Sam says. “Say, Dean? When we were kids, did you really need a hand on my ass to teach me how to swim?”

Dean freezes. He remembers the lake. Sam was twelve. They had been near stretches of water before, but John warned them away from the edge. The times that they had stayed with Bobby or Father Jim, Dean had followed John’s instructions to and past the letter. When they had been offered chances to go to nearby pools, Dean had refused on their behalf. He had to train and Sam, Sam shouldn’t leave his sight.

“Shut your goddamn mouth.”

“That why you let me go swimming in the first place? Just so you could see me naked?”

“It, it wasn’t like that.”

Back then, a week alone stretched in front of them, Sam had trembled his lip and softened his eyes. There had been a campsite not too far from where they were staying. On the way, Sam had spotted a shine of water. He had waited until they had been left behind to ask, to beg. Three days, and Dean said no. It was only when Sam’s face was damp that Dean relented.

“So how was it?”

There was no room in the bags for swimwear, so Dean took them to the lake at dusk. Sam was nervous, so Dean stripped first. He had Sam help fold his clothes to relax him, then climbed into the water when Sam undressed.

“Really, Dean, tell me.”

Sam had grimaced when his toes touched water. Dean had kept his arms open. It was ten minutes before Sam had submerged and he shivered. Water had lapped up three inches above his waist. Dean took him, he wrapped his arms around him and told him it was okay, that he had him. Even in the cold, his chest burned red. He had kicked Sam’s feet from underneath him until he screamed and fell back. Dean caught him. He smoothed a hand down his thigh, down his calf, and directed kicking legs. Sam learned quickly. Dean’s hands had strayed over him when they swam.

“You were a kid, Sam!”

“Uh huh. And that didn’t stop you.”

“You wanna just come out and say whatever it is you wanna say?”

“You wanted me.”

Dean glares.

“I think you still do.”

“You’re full of shit, Sam.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

There’s a beat before Dean shakes his head. He stands, but Sam stands, too. Dean takes a step and Sam grabs his elbow. He lowers his head a touch, not breaking Dean’s eye contact. The hand squeezes. Dean tugs it and Sam holds on. He ignores the sting at his chest and drags Dean to it. His fingers curl until nails bite through Dean’s shirt.

“Get off me, Sam.”

“No. Not until you admit it. C’mon.”

“Admit what? That I didn’t want you to drown?”

“I get it now. I really do. You wanted to protect me. It’s all you’ve ever done, and I get it. But me, like this? It doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”

“Sure. Get off me.”

“Look, man, I’m sharp. Sharper. And you just have to keep me straight. You know I can handle more than I could before.”

“I don’t wanna break your hand, dude, but I will.”

“We can be better this way. I meant what I said, Dean. I want you safe. I need you here. Just, I don’t know, let me in. I’m still your brother.”

Dean growls. “I dunno what you are, but you sure as Hell ain’t my brother.”

Sam sets his jaw. His hand snaps from Dean’s arm to crunch knuckles against Dean’s chin. He cracks once, hard. Dean gasps. His knees buckle. Sam jams his forearm to Dean’s neck. He shoves back until Dean crashes onto the mattress behind him. Air is punched out of his lungs and Sam forces his windpipe closed. The pressure only lets Dean rasp. He kicks, bucks up, but Sam’s metal grip burns. Sam drops over him, knee deep into Dean’s thigh.

“You take that back.”

Dean’s eyes are wide and Sam grits his teeth. He bends in, almost forehead to forehead. He hisses, the other hand at one of Dean’s arms. His thumb digs into the soft flesh of Dean’s inner elbow and if Dean could cry out, he would. Dean’s free arm thrashes, but Sam holds him in place. He watches as Dean’s face reddens, breaths sparse.

“You take that back!”

The struggles weaken. Dean mouths Sam’s name. He can’t whisper. It’s too hard. The blood vessels in his eyes spark scarlet and Sam forces his arm harder against Dean’s throat. He pins Dean’s head right back.

“You know what, Dean? I’m gonna make this easy for you.”

Sam pulls back to his feet. Dean sucks in air hard, chokes and splutters. His vision spots black and rainbow, Hellhound claws in his skull. He twists onto his side, curling like it’ll drag the oxygen faster to his lungs. Sam’s already moved. Dean’s skin flares cold. He grasps at the blanket in front of him to try and balance himself, but there’s a hand at his back. He can’t help it. The push is too hard. He ends up on his stomach and he coughs into the pillow.

When his arms are dragged above his head, Dean tries to pull them back. He can’t. One cuff locks him to the wooden bedframe post. He shakes his head again to clear it. There’s a steel bite at his wrist and he lifts his chin to look at it. He tenses. The other arm thrashes out, but Sam has that, too.

“I always try to talk to you, Dean. I can’t keep doing this.”

“Sam, Sam! What the fuck are you doing?”

“You need this. You have to trust me.”

“Bite me.”

“Listen, if that’s what you want. But I know you, Dean. I know better now.”

Dean slams his elbow back. He wants to connect with anything, face, chest, anywhere, but Sam yanks it forward roughly. Dean shouts out. He squeezes his hand into a fist, but Sam snaps another cuff over it. Dean snarls. He pushes up onto his knees. When he jumps back, his shoulders burn along with his chest, his throat. The sockets scream and it’s Hell all over again, the rack, Alistair taunting him.

“Sam, c’mon, you let me out right now, damnit!”

“I can’t. Not until we figure this out.”

“You just gonna keep me here, huh? You wanna captive audience?”

“No! Dean, I’m still me. I’m going to make this better.”

“We’ll make it better when we get your goddamn soul back in you!”

“I’m tired of the whole soul crap, Dean! I don’t need it!” Sam growls. “I need you here. Thinking. Doing. Not, not just waiting for me to stab you in the back!”

“Yeah, well, you’re doing a mighty fine job of making you trust me right here, huh, Sam?”

Sam hisses in frustration. He steps back and Dean can hear Sam’s hands moving. Dean twists, breath still ragged. He’s in an unholy position, bound at the top and hips turned to the side so he can just see over his shoulder. There’s a zip and a hard drop when Sam’s jeans hit the ground.

“No. Sam, no.”

Underwear follows and Dean bites cuts into his wrists. He yanks at them like they can escape the metal rounds, but it’s useless.

“I know I care about you, Dean. I’m not going to let you keep hurting yourself.”

“Sam, Sam, listen to me. C’mon. We’ll work this out.”

“I know.”

There’s a smile to Sam’s voice that clamps Dean’s stomach. His bottom half free, Sam moves to the side of the bed and he grabs Dean’s belt loop. Dean kicks. Sam climbs onto the bed and shoves Dean onto his front roughly. Another breath rips from Dean’s lungs and he tastes needles. Sam ignores the shout and kneels on the backs of Dean’s thighs. More pain slashes through Dean’s muscles, but now he can’t move.

“That’s better. C’mon. I’m gonna take care of you. You’re gonna thank me, Dean. I promise.”

“Fuck you. You’re not Sam.”

“This is me. Underneath all the crap and the guilt, this is who I am.” His voice softens. “Dean, I want this. You want it, too. You just don’t wanna think this is your fault. It’s not. Sex is, you know, it’s physical. It’s attraction. It’s natural.”

“Don’t you tell me what’s natural, you son of a bitch.”

“Let me help. Just this once.”

“You’re insane. You’re broken and I’m gonna fix it, but you stop this, you stop this right now.”

Sam leans back on his haunches and Dean snaps out another cry. His legs scorch at the pressure points. It’s a difficult position, but Sam manages to push a hand between Dean’s middle and the mattress. He fumbles in that lack of space for the catch of Dean’s button. Dean grinds forward to pin the hand down, but Sam uses the other to grab a fistful of Dean’s collar. He wrenches back and the material garrottes. There isn’t a choice. Dean sobs and slacks his hips.

“Good.”

The grip on the shirt loosens and Dean can breathe again. With another drag of zipper, Sam sighs and moves off the bed. He curls his thumbs under jeaned waist and tugs. Dean struggles again, but the denim won’t fight. It slides down Dean’s legs and his kicks only free them from his ankles. Sam takes them off along with his shoes, socks, like it’s supposed to matter. Dean’s boxers are easier. They slip off without any fuss.

“You getting into it yet?”

There’s no reply. Dean whimpers, eyes wet. Sam reaches out and palms over Dean’s ass. He massages the skin and it could almost be loving. Instead, Dean buries his face in the pillow. His backs wrack in a sob, but Sam doesn’t stop. He traces a finger along his crack. The tip of his finger presses between Dean’s cheeks until he finds his mark.

“You know when you came back from Hell, Dean? You said something, what, being, uh, re-hymenated? That mean I’m gonna have your virginity? Or have you been playing around with guys, too?”

“Get off me!”

 “Man, I wish you could see yourself.” Sam laughs and prises Dean’s legs apart, climbing to kneel back between them. “You look great. You know, once I thought about it, this is a really good idea.”

Dean rasps. “What?”

“Get this. We pick up girls and there’s a chance we’re screwing Monster Alley. If it’s just you and me, we don’t need to worry. It’s all taken care of. And dude, you’ve got those eyelashes and that mouth. You’d look great sucking my dick.”

“You’re talking about raping me, Sam,” Dean says, but the words are dulled rust.

“No. No, I’m not. You want this. You just do this whole thing where it’s a big deal, and it’s not. Your guilt trips get old really fast, you know that? You’re just, I dunno, man, hard work.”

“Please.”

“Listen. I need to show you what you want. It’s okay. It is. Trust me.”

Sam rolls his finger over Dean’s exposed hole. He leans over and lays a kiss between Dean’s shoulderblades, another, then pulls back up.

“Sam.”

“I’m sorry we’re gonna have to do this the old-fashioned way, but we’re outta lube, and there’s no way I’m leaving you like this.”

Dean’s stomach turns. It’s even worse when he feels Sam’s hands at his sides. His hips are pulled up so his ass is halfway in the air. Sam holds him there with one hand and the other snakes around him. He hears Sam’s clicked disappointment when he grasps limp cock, but that doesn’t stop him. Sam wraps his fingers around him and begins with slow strokes. It’s useless at first, but Sam won’t stop. Dean wets the pillow with his tears, nauseated when his body starts to respond.

“See? You like it. You’re getting there.”

He isn’t. Dean can’t help the bead of come that damps the tip of his cock. Sam catches it and spreads it around his shaft. Each stroke is noisier and the motel room is silent bar the sound of slick pumps.

Sam lets go when Dean’s fully erect. Dean mumbles more _please, no, please, Sam,_ but his only response is spit that runs between his cheeks and pools around his hole. It’s a thumb that makes the first push, not breaching. Sam spits again, Dean hears a wet pop and this time it’s a forefinger at his ass. When it pushes inside, Dean grunts in pain. It burns. Every rock into him is fire and he clenches.

“C’mon, Dean,” Sam says. “You’ve seen enough porn. You relax and push back to let it slide in or else you’re gonna hurt yourself again. My dick’s bigger than a finger, trust me.”

He doesn’t have a choice. Sam’s going to do this whether he wants it or not. Dean screws his eyes shut and imagines a monster, a Big Bad where he needs to let them get a hit in so he can survive. He’s taken punches and knives before for the greater good and he’s always come out the other side. So he does, he concentrates like he needs to spar and forces himself to relax.

“There. God. You’re so tight, Dean.”

Sam retracts his hand to spit again and breaches with two spit-slick fingers. Dean cries out, but Sam mistakes it. He makes gentle noises and takes his time with every knuckle thrust. When they’re all in, Sam twists them, scissoring out to stretch Dean. It doesn’t stop burning. Another sound and warm spit hits again, more of it, followed by a third finger. Dean screams. He’s being split, forced wide. He stays still to avoid as much friction as possible. Sam does all the work for him.

“Fuck, I can’t wait. You’re gonna love this. I’m gonna fill you up. God, I need to come inside you.”

The fingers pull away for the final time and Sam butts his erection along the line of Dean’s ass. He dips against his hole. He rocks against it, once, twice, but then he grips onto Dean’s sides in earnest. The force against his opening is rough enough for Dean to cry out again, to choke into the mattress. Dean yanks at his bonds to try and grasp onto something, to brace and hold on, but there’s nothing. His hands are in the wrong position to cling to the headboard struts.

The head of Sam’s cock shoves inside and Dean bites his lip so hard that he cuts the skin wide open. Sam takes his time. He gives shallow thrusts at first, as if to ease Dean in, but he’s impatient. Dean can feel that from the twitch of dick inside him, another burn.

“You’re beautiful like this, Dean. Fuck. Fuck, I want you. We’re so good. Should have always been doing this.”

The sobs muffle into the pillow. Dean bites himself harder. He tugs an arm like a bite there would help more, but he can’t reach. Sam pushes hard to the hilt and he stills. One hand reaches under Dean again and there’s a snort.

“You like this, Dean. You should be hard again. Shit. Don’t worry. You’ll come. I’ll make sure you come. Maybe you want me to get off first, huh? God, you’re perfect. Always looking after me.”

That makes it worse. Sam bucks. He forgets to be gentle and the blaze he causes makes Dean shout with every thrust. It doesn’t get easier. Sam holds Dean’s cock and strokes it again, hard and in tune with his fucking rhythm, but Dean can’t get hard. A few more and Sam gives up. He digs his nails into Dean’s sides and pistons. He growls while Dean whimpers, but the loudest is the slap of skin-on-skin, Sam’s balls rough against Dean’s ass.

It lasts forever. The fire lessens, but Dean feels like stone. He’s covered in sweat, a mix of his own and Sam’s rushed across his skin. A sharp crack against his side forces a grunt. Sam slaps him again. He roughens every thrust, harder and harder until his fingers are pinpoint bruises.

“God you’re good, fuck, Dean, so good.”

“Sam,” Dean begs.

“I’m gonna come. Gonna fill you. God. Make some noise. C’mon. Help me, Dean, please.”

Sam leans over Dean’s back and rubs his hand up his stomach. He fucks harder. That hand runs higher, up his ribs until he finds a nipple. Sam pinches it, twists it between his fingers. Dean groans. Sam uses his nails to nip him harder. Dean is too sensitive, too full and sore and he screams. He begs wordlessly, noises jumbled.

“Almost, Dean. Almost.”

The rams are more erratic. Sam pants. His breath gets more ragged, and the more ragged he becomes, the quieter Dean falls. It’s all that Sam can do to hold Dean’s sides again, lost in his own sensations. Then, a cry, a rasped hiss. Sam fully thrusts into Dean, who shudders when he’s filled with the warm wet. He can feel Sam’s cock spill inside him.

When Sam comes back to himself, he groans. The muscles in his legs must have seized, as it takes a minute or two to pull out of Dean’s hole. He smiles and languidly traces a finger down the line of come leaking from Dean. A pat at Dean’s ass, and that’s permission to sink down into himself. Dean loosens his knees and he’s flush against the mattress.

“You’re beautiful, Dean. I mean, you really are.”

Dean’s silent.

“Okay, man. You’re okay.”

Sagged into the bed, all the fight has left him. Sam lets out a contented sigh and rolls off the bed. There’s a jangle of metal. Dean barely lifts his head when one wrist is released. It drops beside him. The other follows.

An arm slides underneath him and Dean is tugged onto his back. His cheeks have dried, the tears leaving parched lines that meet under his chin. Sam smiles down at him. He picks up each wrist and examines them.

“Dean, you shouldn’t have struggled.”

Nothing.

“I can’t believe you didn’t get off. I guess you’ve just got to get used to it.”

Sam groans as he climbs further up the bed. He’s back on his knees and half stretches over Dean, one hand threading through his hair. There’s just enough to tug Dean’s head to the side.

“C’mon, Dean. I know you wanna taste me. I’m letting you, man. It’s fine.”

His eyes fill again, but Dean parts his dry lips. Sam purrs his praise and he rolls his hips forward to nudge his limp cock against Dean’s chin. He has to brace himself to move a little higher, and when he does, it sinks into Dean’s mouth.

“First time you’ve done this? Okay. Uh, Dean, you’ve at least had enough to guess.”

It takes another tug of his hair for Dean to close his mouth around him. Dean closes his eyes, too. Sam moans and grinds against Dean’s face, coarse hair scratching his chin. He pulls back so just the head is inside him and Dean chokes again. Sam squeezes hair into his fist and fresh tears nip at Dean’s eyes. He knows what Sam wants. The first lick is the hardest. The second is almost as difficult, but Dean forces himself on until every trace of Sam’s come is replaced by his own spit-shine.

When he’s finished, when Sam has enough, Sam lies on his back, tight beside him. He pats over Dean’s side as an afterthought.

“That was, I dunno, great, man,” he says. “Next time, I want you to come, too. I mean, it’s what you need. I know it is. Dean?”

“Yeah.”

“Listen, you won’t be any good tomorrow. I can do some research and see what’s next. You don’t need to do anything.”

“Thanks.”

“You can touch me, you know. I’m not going to freak out. It’s me.”

“Okay.”

“God, I feel great. This is probably the best thing that ever happened to us.”

“Yeah.”

“This is fair, right? I can look after you now. It makes sense. You need someone to give you what you need and, you know, you can be you with me. No more secrets. It’s not like I’m going to judge you for whatever.”

Dean shakes. He rolls onto his side away from Sam, but a hot arm scalds a line around his middle. Sam curls up into his back and sighs.

“Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Trust me, okay?”

Dean doesn’t think that he can feel anything below his waist. He concentrates on the sting around his wrists. Now that he’s empty, he can feel bruises tighten around his throat. When he swallows, it makes him cough. Sam leans up and reaches to hold Dean’s chin. He turns it to look right at him, right through him. Dean looks down.

Sam’s kiss is molten ash on his lips and the tongue that invades his mouth is sandstone. Dean responds, a wind-up toy for whatever his brother needs.

“Just trust me. It’ll be better next time.”

He nods his head, numb. “Next time.”


End file.
